Of Stealth, Notes, and Turtles
by vanillapudding5
Summary: An account of Fred and George Weasley's First Big Prank in noteform. Written with Pumaful at LJ for CastleHogwarts' April quidditch match.


**Note #1 (From George to Fred ****Weasley**** – History of Magic, 1991**Psst.

**Note ****#2 (Flicked at the precise angle to hit George on the nose)** Psst yourself, mate. Honestly, isn't there something a bit more... eloquent you might say? And can't you see I'm busy? Drawing doodles whilst Professor Binns drones on is very time consuming, I'll have you know. No, I won't stand for it: you are not to interrupt me while I draw such lovely creations of art.

**Note #3 (Landing somewhere near Fred's feet)** I could recite poetry, if you'd like. Would that be eloquent enough?

**Note #4 (Charmed to skip across the table)** So long as it doesn't interrupt my doodling. And, mind, if it involves bunnies or rainbows or anything of the sort I will have no choice but to kill you. You are warned.

**Note #5 (Spelled to take on a rainbow hue, and with a rabbit scrawled in the corner)** Bollocks. What about unicorns?

**Note #6 (Modified to ha****ve a specifically sharp tip - ****all the better to puncture the receiver)** You write about unicorns, you die.

**Note #7 (Charmed to spit when touched)** Ah, but then you'd be a twin no longer, would you? And we all know how traumatic that would be. (I'm waggling my eyebrows at you. Look up.)

**Note #8 (Turn****ing**** into a slug upon hitting the table)** I would still technically be a twin: there just wouldn't be living proof. It's not like anyone wouldn't believe me--I'm totally trustworthy, yes? (I'm waggling back, but for an entirely different reason. George, my brother, my mate, how would you enjoy dying?)

**Note #9 (Transfigured into a salt shaker, for obvious reasons**Not much, I must say. Lucky for me, it's against the law. Though why I tell myself that'll stop you, I've no idea.

Hmm. Binns has passed out. Odd. Never saw that one coming.

Lack of oxygen, d'you think?

Just in time, in any case; I'm famished. Lunch?

**Note #10 (Doesn't turn into anything until after reading, where it explodes into a familiar slug which...explodes.)** Har har. Me, listen to the law? Fred Fillius Weasely, who has acquired 122 detentions in his three years at Hogwarts? What makes you think that? Honestly, brother of mine, I don't think you were raised properly. Funny, that. Maybe there's a lack of oxygen because he's a bloody ghost. He'd pass out twenty-four seven if that was the case... Hmm. Maybe you have a point. Lunch it is.

"One hundred sixteen." "One hundred twenty-four." "One hundred seventeen. Maybe." George frowns and shakes his head. He is clearly related to an absolute moron. "You're wrong." "You're younger." "By two seconds." "Three." "Two." "Four." An absolute moron who can't count. "That isn't the point. You've had one hundred andtwenty-two detentions. I've had one hundred and twenty-four." "Nope." "Yes." "When?" "When I lit your eyebrows on fire. When you had a cold, and I got caught sneaking into the kitchens. When I -" "Those don't count." "They do." "They don't." "They do." The bell rings overhead. Why there are bells in a magical school in which students could very well be apparated to their classrooms at the appropriate times has never made sense to George, but then, there are a lot of things that don't make sense to George. Like tripe. Tripe, and theway thatProfessor Binns can faint in classwhen he's been dead for years.("You can't apparate into or out of Hogwarts. Honestly, you're third years, and you've never read Hogwarts, a History?" Hermione Something, that girl who follows Ron and Harry Potter around, shrills from down the table when he voices this aloud.) "We'll discuss this later," Fred says, taking afinal swig of his pumpkin juice. Hates to admit when someone else is right, George thinks. "Right now, Charms. Onward." And offthey go.

**Note #11 (No spells attached: ****Flitwick**** has rather a much sharper eye than ****Binns****, for obvious reasons, one being that he has eyes)** I still say those detentions don't count–prove me wrong and I shall be forced to revive the time when the Giant Squid sucked you into the lake when we were being chased by Filch and I got detention while you were busy fighting away at the lovesick tentacles. I know we agreed never to bring that up again, but I am underhanded, after all; it's why you worship me so.

**Note #12** Worship's such a strong word; one I don't like to use often. Unless, of course, you're the one doing the worshipping, and I am the worshipee. I can't help but notice that you don't deny a lack of detentions on your part, but rather sink to the level of something low, deigning to bring up that hideous Squid incident in an attempt to distract me. Well, Fred. Well, well, well. You should know by now that I am not easily distracted. Not distracted by anything, anyone, at any time (save Madame Rosmerta when she's wearing those red robes of hers). I am shocked that you would thi –

"Squeak! Squeak squeak squeak-ity squeak!" Fred blinks, eyes blearily focusing on the form of the diminutive professor that stands in front of his brother–beforehand, his attention had been caught by a fly crawling stealthily along the wall. Sparing a moment to wonder, like so many philosophers and teenage adolescents before him, how exactly flies managed to cling to walls without falling off, he tunes back into the wonderful, magical world of Flitwick's Charms class, where his brother is being severely berated for the note that now lies clenched in the dwarf's tiny fist. He smirks. Life is good. "Mr. Weasley, how many times must I tell you not to pass notes in my class? If you must be conjoined at the hip to your twin at all times, do it in a way that does not disturb the class, or your learning process! I--" Fred knows better than to yawn openly at Flitwick's speech, and instead tunes out again, turning back to the fly on the wall, who is now rubbing its front legs together, mirroring the older Weasley twin's sadistic glee. He does, however, fling a note George's way at the soonest opportunity--namely, the minute Flitwick starts to clamber atop his chair again, not noticing his brother's slightly euphoric expression.

**Note #13**My poor dear brother, I fear that you are lost to me. Really! Caught by Flitwick? The skies weep at the very thought. You really should listen to your elders and betters, you know. They can teach you a thing or two about being stealthy. Just call me Fly-Man, clinger of walls.

**Note #14**Fred. Freddie. Freddikins. I love you. I really, truly do. But you are unbelievably daft sometimes. Were you not just listening to what Flitwick said?

**Note #15** Umm...no? Flies are much more interesting, I'll have you know.

**Note #16**None of it? Not at all? Not even the bit where he said, "Thank Merlin you two haven't managed to get your hands on the - never mind"? WHAT'S THE 'NEVER MIND'?!

**Note #17** George, since when have you taken anything a teacher said seriously? It could be anything, you know. A potion, a book, a classmate, a hat, a fig... I dunno. What do you intend to do about it?

**Note ****#18** I take it seriously when said teacher is too afraid to come out and name what he's hinting at. Then again - no. There was that one time when Professor WhatsHerFace (the one who teachesMuggle Studies? D'you remember? Ah, well. It's not like we were in the class for more than a day) wouldn't tell us what a "Whooping Cushion" was (we found out, anyway). I ignored it that time because obviously, muggles are complete amateurs when it comes to pranking, and their methods are less-than-satisfying. But this time, I have a feeling that it isn't about one of their stupid contraptions. Or a fig, either. It's something good.

**Note #19** Well, that's all very good, I'm sure (and I happen to like figs, thank you very much) but here' s a simple question--if it is such a good thing, as your WeasleySense tells you, how do you plan to go about finding out just what on Earth it is? Bet it's a book, though. Flitwick is the head of Ravenclaw, after all. And since when were books interesting?

**Note ****#20** I...don't quite know yet. That's where you come in, Freddie-pie. You and your mad ideas about books. I think you just might be onto something.

**Note #21 **Well, Georgie-kins, when searching for a book, the best place to look would normally be a library. Shall we examine our very own Hogwarts collection under cover of night? (And please don't forget the Marauder's Map this time, honey bear. It does such terrible things to my complexion to be wandering the Hogwarts halls at night without it.)**Note #22** If, by 'our very own Hogwarts collection', you mean 'Filch's office', then yes, I believe we should. Remind me to take those dungbombs back while we're at it, would you? I've missed them ever so much. Midnight? (Of course I won't forget the Map. It was you who left it under his mattress last time, Mr. PlaceTheBlameOnSomeoneElse.)

**Note #23**

Of course, the dungbombs. How could I forget – twenty Galleons worth. Bloody Filch. Yes, I shall indeed remind you.

Ah, the Witching Hours (do excuse the pun). Midnight it is, my dear fellow. (And you're the one who put it there, Mr. Place-The-Map-In-Convenient-Locations-So-He-Can-Place-The-Blame-On-Someone-Else.)

**Note ****#24** I'm sick of Charms. Care to skive off? Flitwick can't see over that stack of books...

**Note** **#25**So shall we visit Filch's office now, then? We can always charm the books to stretch a bit, and bribe Lee into setting his pillow on fire or something.

**N****ote #26** I see smoke. We shall.

**Note #27** After you, my dear brother.

Stealth is the key. Timing and sheer dumb luck,too,but stealth first and foremost.

They creep along the stone walls of the castle. Like Aurors, George thinks. Or perhaps one of those spies from the movie thingamajig they watched on that first (and only) day of Muggle Studies.

Smooth. Suave. Silent.

Except for the fact that George looks nothing like Jack Bond or whomever. And that Fred has a smudge of dirt on his chin. And that this is the third time they've bumped into one another.

But aside from that, yes. Oh, yes. They're practically professionals.

Fred stops short at a corner,and George just barely avoids toppling another suit of armor. Loud racket, not good at all.

The sound of whistling drifts faintly down the corridor, and George looks over Fred's shoulder, studying the map.

Percy. The bloody pansy.

They wait until hislittle ink footprints disappear into one of the Arithmancy rooms to continue, moving stealthily from alcove to alcove. Crawling stealthily beneath windows, past open classroom doors. Wrestling for control of the worn parchment when things getparticularly dull. Stealthily.

It's rather convenient, Filch being a Squib and all, and notonly because he can't possibly follow through with his threats to hex them to within an inch of their lives. No. The beauty of it - the truly lovely bit- is that there really is no way for him to lock hisoffice properly and still be able to get inside. Thus - nospells, no wards,only plain old regular locks. Evenmuggles can get past those.

"Brilliant," Fred mutters, checking the map onelast timebefore easing the door open. "Tell me why we don't do this more often."

"No idea," George says, crossing the room (it's really no more than a broom closet) and spelling the ancient, clanky cabinets open, inspecting the contents.

Fake eyeballs. No.

A rubber chicken. No.

A pair of lacy knickers. Definitely not.

Although...no.

He moves to a table, sifting through a sheaf of parchment, and then, seeingnothing, to the bookshelf opposite.

"Found your dungbombs," Fred's muffled voice comes from beneath the desk.

"And I found it," George says, staring at the batteredtext in his hands.

"What?" Fred's head pops up, a chocolate frog hanging out of his mouth.

"It."

"It?"

"It."

"You know, I haven't got a clue what you're on about."

"I found the bloody book, Fred."

"Ah," Fred stands. "It."

George rubs at the cover, blowing dust off the binding and revealing the title. The Art of Pranking, it says, hacking a little. He cracks it open. They gasp.

"We've found the big one," Fred mutters, awed. "We've hit the mother load. We've -"

"Found it." George breathes. "I neverbelieved it existed."

Joyful music erupts. The angels sing. The -

Door handle turns.

"Bloody hell," says Fred.

**Note #28 (In detention, with Professor ****Binns**** snoring in the background)** Well. I think the Powers that Be decided that there wasn't much they could make us do that we hadn't done already, so they decided to BORE US TO DEATH. My hands tremble at the thought. See that smudge? At any rate, since we can't talk, we might as well look at that thing that got us into detention in the first place. (Georgie-pie, I love you so, but you're one daft berk. It was your turn to keep an eye on the map, not to goggle over the Prankster-Sutra. Lucky Filch didn't notice the split-second Invisibility Charm performed on the book.) So. What secrets lurk beneath the cover of our newfound Bible?

**Note #29**Tell me, please, why Binns monitors detention when he sleeps the entire time.

And why he sleeps the entire time when he's a bloody ghost. Do ghosts need sleep? They're dead.

Makes no sense. No sense, at all.

As to the various wonders of The Book?

Well. So far, I've found…a stain. A rather large, discolored, and unidentifiable stain.

Dear Merlin. I don't even want to know what horrors Filch has –

Gah. Never mind.

**Note #30** A stain, you say? Brilliant, mate. I know you still enjoy looking at the pretty pictures in the textbooks, but try the words. I know it's hard, but I have faith in you. Give it a whirl.

**Note #31 (Sailing through the air, tucked into the pages of a rather large and equally ancient textbook**I read the words, all right? But when something like that's on the opposite page...shut up.

What I did find, between shuddering and choking back bile, might be of some interest to you.

--- Look there. Page 492? Have you ever heard mention of an idea so brilliant in your entire life?

_The DOMINO SPELLE is a very simple spelle, when executed correctly. All the prankster has to do is flick their wande and shout CATELLUS INLUDO and the spelle will instantly take effect._

_This spelle's effect on the prankee will make them cast a spelle on the firste person that they see that they would subconsciously want to pranke. This person will pranke another persono, and so on and so for the._

_To stoppe the spelle, one must shout ABICIO CATELLUS and all wille cease. Make sure only to caste the spelle on one persone at a time, as a subtle chaine effecte will be much more enjoyable to watch than a whole crowde of people pranking each other._

_To make a spelle so one can track the prankee's movement…_

**Note #32** Heh heh. Come now, Georgie me mate--there's worse stuff on those magazines Hooch made us categorize after we set Slytherin's brooms on fire. I mean, what was that brown stuff? I really don't think it was dirt. I...cannot write. For the first time, words have failed me. Brilliance. Pure, unfiltered, brilliance of a kind no one has ever seen. Shall we do it tomorrow, then?

**Note #33**I believe we shall.

**Note #34**** (passed covertly beneath ****Gryffindor's**** table in the Great Hall during dinner**This is brilliant. Bloody brilliant.

DO YOU SEE THAT HUFFLEPUFF FIRST YEAR SLIPPING ITCHING POWDER INTO HIS MATE'S PUDDING? THAT RAVENCLAW UNLOADING ZONKO'S PRODUCTS FROM HIS BAG?

Just this morning, I heard McGonagall talking to Pomfrey about the Hospital Wing. COMPLETELY FULL.

Beautiful. I feel tears coming on just thinking about it.

The Hospital Wing is filled to capacity, Pomfrey's requesting backup. Everywhere he turns, George spots another second year failing miserably at a Bat Bogey, a muggle-born first year sticking one of those whoppling cushions on his mate's chair.

It is brilliance. Sheer brilliance.

He tells Fred so on the morning of The Fifth Day as they meander in the general direction of the greenhouses for Herbology.

"And you know what the best part is?" Fred asks him happily, shoving a leftover piece of bacon into his mouth, "The best part is that _they can never prove it was us_. Oh, they'll know –"

" – and that's the whole point – " George comments.

" – that's the whole point, yes," Fred agrees. "They'll _know_, as well they should, but we can never be blamed. _There is no evidence_."

"Except for the –" George shifts his eyes, searching the corridors for eavesdroppers, "the…_you know_. We still have It."

"Well, yes." Fred concedes. "Yes, we do still have It. But they'll never _find_ It, my dear brother, oh no. Because this time, I've hidden It in a place so secret, so completely and utterly removed from the rest of…_everything_, that It is absolutely _impossible to uncover_."

"You've not put it under your pillow again, have you?"

"You act as though I'm daft." George eyes him suspiciously. "What? No, it's not beneath the pillow, all right?"

There's a moment of silence.

"…Fine, _fine_, yes, it is. But _I'm going to move it_. To…somewhere. Under the mattress? The loose floorboard?" George gives him a Look, and he grows defensive. "Not that it matters anyway, as no one in their right mind would come anywhere _near_ my pillow after you put your feet all over it last week. Honestly, it's _safer_ this way."

"So you're saying," George says slowly, hefting a bag filled entirely with Zonko's products and no books or parchment whatsoever higher up on his back, "what you're trying to tell me is that if someone – _anyone_ – were to search our dorm right now, right at this _very moment_, they wouldn't be able to find…_you know_, under any circumstances?"

"None." Fred says firmly. "Don't look so doubtful."

"I'm not." George insists.

"You are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Not."

"Are."

"Not."

"Are."

"Maybe a little."

"I knew it!" Fred looks triumphant and then frowns. "I am ashamed at your lack of faith in me. Your _brother_. Your own _flesh and blood_. Sharer of your mother's _womb_. Truly a_shamed_."

"Well, you must admit," George argues, "the pillow's worked marvelously in the past. But this time, Fred, _this time is different_. This is big. This is _huge_. This could possibly be the defining moment of our lives. Collectively. Years and years into the future, when I'm still unbelievably dashing and you're old and sagging, we'll find a porch to rock on and we'll sit back, surrounded by grandchildren, and tell the story of The Prank that Made us Famous. Or infamous, as the case may be. We've got to _protect_ this one, Fred. _For the sake of the children_. I thought…I thought you'd put it in…I don't know, your underwear drawer. A _bookshelf_. Somewhere no one would ever _look_. Not under your bloody _pillow_."

"Not even with a disillusionment charm?" Fred asks innocently.

"Not even with a – wait, _what_?"

"'A disillusionment charm,' I said. Have you been forgetting to clean your ears, again? Because mum told me to owl her if –"

"YOU DISILLUSIONED IT?!" George fairly screeches.

"Of course I did, you berk. Merlin, you really _do_ think I'm an idiot, don't you? It's at the bottom of my trunk, in the corner with all the dirty socks and candy wrappers, invisible."

"Not under a pillow?"

"Not under a pillow."

"And no one can see it." George confirms.

"That's generally what 'invisible' means."

"Not Lee?"

"Not Lee. Though I don't see why we can't tell him outright…"

"Not McGonagall?"

"Not McGonagall."

"Not Dumbledore?"

"Not –" They turn a corner, and Fred very nearly runs nose-first into something tall and hard and blue. Or rather, some_one_. "– Dumbledore."

"Lovely day, isn't it, gentlemen?" the Headmaster comments mildly, smiling down at them.

"Yes, yes, absolutely Professor, and my, don't you look charming." George says.

"Just spiffing," adds Fred, rubbing at his face.

"Why, thank you, yes, Professor McGonagall bought me these robes for my birthday. They _do _bring out my eyes, don't they?"

They nod, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. George vaguely feels a headache coming on. "If I could have a brief word with you in my office," Dumbledore says, gesturing in the opposite direction.

They have no choice but to follow him.

"Lemon drop," Dumbledore mutters when they reach the gargoyle. "You know, I must say, I am rather fond of the color pink, myself. In fact, I have this remarkable pair of socks in a delightful shade of fuchsia; you'd never believe…"

Fred glances at George and raises an eyebrow. George shrugs in response. There's no turning back, now.

"Tea?" Dumbledore offers as they step into the room.

"No," George says.

"Yes," Fred says at the same time. Dumbledore fills two cups anyhow, eyes twinkling merrily as he passes them across his desk. "Have a seat."

They sit.

"It has come to my attention," he begins, sinking into a soft-looking armchair and clearing his throat, "that there have been a few, shall we say, _interesting_ occurrences over the course of the past week."

"_Really_." Fred leans forward earnestly.

"Yes, yes, I am quite as shocked as you, I must admit. We've had mishaps before, gentlemen, as I'm sure you are more than aware, but nothing of this sort. Nothing of this caliber. Nothing, at least, for a good fifteen years. Students with extra ears, students blowing bubbles. Students who cannot, for the life of them, stop doing the Hokey-Pokey."

Fred takes a small sip of his tea, repressing a grin. He sees George doing the same.

"It seems that _something_ has overtaken the school," Dumbledore continues calmly. "An epidemic of sorts. Of _pranks_."

Fred does his best to look shocked.

"Now, I know that the two of you, so upstanding, would never involve yourselves in anything such as this."

"Oh, no, Professor," George insists, scandalized, "_never_."

"However, it has recently been brought to my attention that a certain book, one found to be missing from Mr. Filch's office just last week, magically appeared in your," he turns his gaze on Fred, "trunk. Partially disillusioned and covered in chocolate stains."

_Dam__n_.

It's almost as though Dumbledore's getting taller with every word he speaks, Fred notices idly. Powerful presence, he has. Not to mention great posture. Makes Fred feel sluggish and incompetent, just thinking about it.

And…shorter.

With a start, Fred realizes that Dumbledore isn't growing any. _He, Fred, _is_ getting shorter_. His head is no longer above the desk, but below. The arms of the chair he sits in are now above his head. And Dumbledore is positively _looming_.

Smiling, too. "Right on schedule. I _am_ pleased, as you can imagine."

Fred moves to share a quick look with George, and finds that he cannot. Move well, that is. Much _less_ quickly. He blinks slowly in confusion. Turns his head, _slowly_, to his left.

And gets the (slowest) shock of his life.

Sitting in the seat beside him, eyes wide with disbelief, is a turtle. A George Turtle. A green, shelled, _turtle-y_ George Turtle.

Fred suddenly finds himself inside a dark tunnel. At least, as suddenly as one can find oneself somewhere when one is a _turtle_.

Because that's what he is. A bloody, sodding _turtle_. And this tunnel is his bloody, sodding _shell_.

What the bloody sodding hell, Fred thinks.

"Do come out, Mr. Weasley, no need to be shy," a voice floats in from outside. It echoes. Fred ventures out. Slowly.

"As I was saying," Dumbledore continues cheerfully, "I've never much been one for Potions, but I must admit, I've always been curious as to whether this particular one would work."

'Which?' Fred tries to ask. No sound comes out.

"Of course, I never had an excuse to test it before now, but thanks to the two of you, well. Brilliant, isn't it? Slip a bit at a tea party, and results in less than ten seconds!"

Fawkes makes an approving noise from his perch in the corner.

"This Domino Spelle you've discovered, sheer genius in every sense of the word." His eyes sparkle again, _evilly_, this time, Fred notes bitterly. "It is most unfortunate, though I'm sure you more than understand my predicament, that I must, obligated as I am by the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts, punish you both."

Fred's heart sinks. Slowly.

"Twenty-five points from Gryffindor for each of you, and Hospital Wing duty until Madame Pomfrey is significantly less burdened; she'll be expecting you this evening after dinner. You'll do well to head that way now, best not be late, don't you agree?"

Fred doesn't bother attempting a nod. It would take too long.

Dumbledore steps deftly around the desk, lifting each of them in turn from their respective chairs to the floor. "Have a splendid day," he says.

Fred is glad, for a moment, that he is physically incapable of speech.

He looks at George. Slowly.

George looks back. Slowly.

And they slowly make their way to the door.


End file.
